


when Rome's in ruins

by stelleappese



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Missing Scene, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 13:33:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10698057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stelleappese/pseuds/stelleappese
Summary: Masseria is underestimating Maranzano. Charlie tries to figure out how to survive.Set between season 4 and the beginning of season 5.





	when Rome's in ruins

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Writing Masseria's dialogue is H A R D. Sorry if it sounds weird.  
> 2) As always, I apologize to all Sicilians if I fucked up the Sicilian dialogues lol  
> 3) I tried to translate and/or make all the non-English stuff understandable; let me know if I failed and you need me to translate something.

The restaurant is badly lit and filled with smoke, empty apart from the few people at Masseria's table, the last waiter still around, and Charlie. He's standing a few steps from the table where Masseria and his guests are laughing and drinking what Charlie can only hope to be the last round of grappa for the night. Judging by their accent, Masseria's guests are not Sicilian, but mainland Italians. Campani, probably.

“ _Assettate,_ Totò.” Masseria says, once he's done saying goodbye to his friends. “I tell you about them, no? When you was a little boy,” He uses his hand to show Charlie how short he was when he first had told him the story.  
“Yes you did, Joe.” Charlie says, sitting down.  
“Fifteen, I was. I didn't know nobody here. I watch them play from my window. They scream at each other in Napoletano, they look like they enjoy themselves. One day my mother send me to buy groceries, and when I go back they stop me and ask me to play, and I...”  
“You tell them you're Napoletano too,” Charlie says.  
Masseria nods, grinning at the thought. “ _Comu si nun si senti ca sugnu Sicilianu_ , eh? Like I no sound Sicilian.”

He offers Charlie some grappa, shouts for the waiter to come take his order. Charlie shakes his head at the waiter, but he does accept the grappa. It burns down his throat, strong enough to make his eyes water.

“Joe, we need to talk about it,” Charlie says, “About what Maranzano's up to. About Sabella.”  
“What about Sabella?” asks Masseria, leaning back into his chair.  
“He ain't even tried to hide that he's on Maranzano's side. I was told he's moving men from Philadelphia into Brooklyn.”  
“We got men right here,” Masseria shrugs, but he's listening carefully, eyes scanning Charlie's face.  
“We can't afford to underestimate Maranzano. He's not as feared as you are, but he's clever, _iddu jé furbu_ , Joe.”  
“And we not clever?”  
“That's not what I meant, you know that.”  
“Maranzano is not a problem,” Masseria says, “You say _jé furbu_ , clever, but he just talk and talk and talk.”  
“We should still make sure that's all he does.” Charlie insists, “That his talk doesn't turn into something else.”  
Masseria smirks and reaches out, patting Charlie's shoulder. “Is late,” he says, “You go home and sleep. Worry about Maranzano tomorrow, if you want to, how you say, waste time with him.”

Charlie is putting his hat on when Masseria speaks again.  
“Hey, Totò,” he says, buttoning his coat. “I glad you and us are 'we' now.”  
“You know I'm with you, Joe. You know I'm loyal to you,” Charlie says, “You doubt that?”  
Masseria shrugs again, the look on his face vaguely mischievous, vaguely mocking.  
“Loyal to me, loyal to the Jew, Maya...” he says, eyes still examining Charlie. “Maya is worried about Maranzano too?”  
“How should I know?” Charlie mutters, perhaps more defensively than he would have liked.  
Masseria gives him an amused look, then finally says: “ _Bona notti_ , Totò.” and pushes his own hat on, just as Charlie is starting to worry he's insinuating something dangerous.  
“Yeah. Goodnight, Joe.” Charlie says, as the waiter starts turning off lights deeper into the restaurant. He looks at Masseria walk outside, where his bodyguard waits for him.

Things, he knows, are changing.

  
  


The sun is about to go down behind the roofs of the elegant buildings outside of Charlie's window, and the whole room is filled with an orange glow. The french door leading to the balcony is open, the breeze making the translucent curtains sway is warm, for September, but carries within it an unmistakable hint of piercing cold.

“I don't like it, Meyer.” Charlie says, pacing the room, an unlit cigarette between his lips. “Those Castellammaresi fucks in Brooklyn are up to something. Looking for allies. People don't look for support when they ain't gonna use it.”  
“Did you bring up the subject with Masseria?” asks Meyer, his voice even, soothing.  
“Far as Masseria's concerned, there _ain't_  a subject,” snorts Charlie, “He thinks he's immortal, nobody will have the balls to go against him.”

Masseria is overreaching, Charlie thinks, fumbling in his pocket for a light that isn't there. Who would ever be stupid or suicidal enough to challenge Joe the Boss, after all? A man known to help old women carry their groceries and then go back to murdering people a mere handful of minutes later?  
He's unpredictable, he's brutal, he's merciless. Masseria thinks he's too big, too powerful, to be scared. He thinks the constant chance of explosive violence will keep people in check.

“Do you think he doesn't consider Maranzano to be a threat?” Meyer asks, tilting his head a little. He's sitting on an arm-chair, legs overlapped, smoke rising from the cigarette he's holding in his hand. Charlie looks at him, and Meyer nods to himself. “Well, he will have to admit it soon enough. Maranzano will not stay idle and wait for Masseria to make a move on him.”  
“He won't,” Charlie sighs, finally going still.  
“Keep trying to make him understand how tense the situation is. See if you can at least instill some sense of looming danger inside his mind.”  
“That ain't gonna help,”  
“It isn't going to hurt, either.” Meyer says, his voice trailing off, as if something caught his attention while he was speaking.

“You think I oughta talk to Maranzano,” Charlie says.  
Meyer's dark eyes go wide, but just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Charlie to notice. He nods. “Eventually. Possibly.” Meyer shrugs, “It wouldn't be good for us to burn any bridges just yet. If Masseria refuses to take this situation seriously, we need to make sure we're not caught in the crossfire. If there has to be a war, we need to be on the right side of it.”  
Charlie's wanders towards the french door, his gaze lingering outside. The sun is sinking fast. Some of the windows facing his suite have lit up already. A woman is looking down to the street, chin in her cupped hands; a cat is lying in on a balustrade, fat white tail dangling over the edge.  
Charlie catches himself sighing, shaking his head. He turns his back to Manhattan, walks up to Meyer and steals the cigarette from his mouth to light his own.  
“If there is a right side,” he says, handing back Meyer's cigarette and puffing out smoke.

  
  


Charlie is standing in front of the counter, filling up his cigarette holder as he waits for his change. It rained all night and it doesn't look like it's going to stop any time soon; people run on the sidewalk, looking for cover, thunder rumbles menacingly, the water sloshes down in buckets.  
He's looking at the water streaming down the road when someone next to him says: “Lousy weather, uh?”

The bodyguard Meyer found for Charlie, a big guy called Pinky, takes a step forward, but Charlie raises a hand and he stops.  
“Signor Maranzano,” Charlie says, dryly, “What a coincidence.”  
Maranzano smiles amicably. The look he gives to the man behind the counter isn't hostile, but it gets him scrambling to the back of the shop anyway.  
“I've heard good things about you,” Maranzano says, leaning against the counter. “So good, in fact, that I still wonder... how can a smart, young man like you still be working for Masseria?”

He's not an imposing man, Maranzano. If Charlie didn't already know him, and what he's capable of, he would take him for someone respectable. A teacher, maybe, or if he ignored the expensive suit and focused on the soft voice and encouraging smile, a priest.

“Joe has been good to me.” Charlie says, trying to keep his voice as blank as humanly possible.  
“But you object to his ways, don't you?” Maranzano says, “To the bloodshed, to the... lack of logic.”  
“I don't know who you been talking to, but I ain't getting paid to object,” Charlie says.  
Maranzano smiles again, leaning a bit closer. “Any intelligent man would be uncomfortable with how inefficient and greedy Masseria has been acting. He thinks people are too scared to dare challenge him. It's understandable. Julius Caesar said that men are eagerly willing to believe what they wish was true. But fear can only help you rule for the time it takes to your subjects to stab you in the back.”  
“That so?” Charlie asks, “How would _you_  do it?”  
“The way a father does,” Maranzano says, lightly, “There have to be rules, of course, and there have to be consequences, but only when the situation calls for them.”

Of course, Maranzano is right about Masseria. Charlie knows some of Masseria's people have already started looking for ways out, ways to earn Maranzano's favor. Some of them may have done it just in case, they may be trying to keep a foot in two shoes for as long as they can; doesn't mean some aren't planning something more... drastic.

“I would be good to you too, Salvatore,” Maranzano says, and Charlie ignores the way his skin starts to prickle uncomfortably, the way his hands itch to curl into fists. “Us Sicilians, we need to look out for each other. We were snubbed back in Italy and we will be snubbed here in America. The only chance we have is together.”  
“Ain't that the truth,” Charlie comments, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray on the counter.  
He knows, from the way Maranzano is looking at him, that he wants an answer, or at least a suggestion of it, right now. Charlie doesn't give him one, and Maranzano nods and grins.  
“It has been a pleasure,” he says, touching his hat and gesturing to his bodyguard, who walks out before him.  
“Likewise,” Charlie answers.

Pinky approaches Charlie, they look at Maranzano walk to his car, get in.  
“You don't look impressed, boss.” Pinky comments.  
“He's full of shit,” Charlie says. “Kings, fathers, Sicilians. Same old shit, different Don. So what he talks prettier than Masseria? He ain't an American.”  
And Charlie will be damned if, in the event of Masseria's defeat, Maranzano wouldn't butcher all those who crossed sides.

  
  


“What the fuck was he thinking? If someone saw the two of you talking...” Benny says, finger pointing at Charlie.  
“The fuck you yelling at me for? It ain't like I went looking for him.” Charlie says, and empties his glass in a sip.  
“This is _bad_ , Charlie.” Benny insists.  
“Well, it happened. Nothing I can do about it.”  
“You didn't say no,” Meyer says. He's leaning against the poker table, arms crossed.  
“To be fair, he didn't ask,” Charlie says. “What are you thinking?”  
Meyer bites the inside of his cheek, he sighs. “I think there are two possibilities. Either he wanted to let you know there would be no consequences if you decided to give him your allegiance, or he wanted to have a chance to take a look at you and decide if you're worth his time.”

Benny starts muttering; he pours himself a generous amount of whiskey. Lightning flashes. A gust of wind slams bullets of rain against the windows.  
“Maybe you should tell Masseria to fuck off,” Benny says, “He's on his way out anyway, yes? He's pissed off so many people, someone's bound to do him in...”  
“Or he could find a way to get rid of Maranzano first, then _I_ 'd be fucked.” Charlie shakes his head.

Plus, what would change, really? Masseria may dislike Charlie's associates because they're Jews, but at least he has no issues allying with other Italians. Maranzano would maybe be a more efficient capo di tutti i capi, but his focus on Sicilians would only manage to limit their chances to profit even further.

“It's too early to have a clear idea of what is going on,” Meyer says, “For now, it's just two factions bickering. There is still a chance nothing will come out of it.”  
“Let's fucking hope so.” Benny groans.  
“Yeah,” Charlie sighs, rubbing his eyes.

  
  


Charlie walks down the wet sidewalk, Pinky by his side. The storm is finally over, and the streets are empty and quiet. Their steps echo in the night.  
He's flicking his cigarette away when he hears the revving of an engine and looks up, in time to see a black car brake a few steps from them.  
Three people come out, one of them already shooting in Pinky's direction. Charlie's fumbling with his gun when two of the men grab him. An arm is around his throat, chocking him; the man picks him up and throws him inside the car.  
Charlie struggles, manages to kick one of his assailants in the face, but something hits the back of his head, hard, and everything goes black.

  
  


When Charlie opens his eyes, or rather tries to open his eyes, the surprise at the fact he's still alive is possibly even stronger than the relief.

The past night is a blur. He remembers blinding pain, he remembers being on the floor, two people kicking him while another looked on. He remembers how odd he found the fact he didn't even feel it when the knife pierced his flesh; it was just like a punch, it left him breathless, but he only started worrying about it when he saw his blood dripping on the floor.

Now he can hardly move. He looks at the pitch black sky, listens to the crashing of waves, and thinks it would be so pleasant to just stay here like this, maybe close his eyes again, maybe sleep.  
But now he knows what he has to do. It would be such a pity to take it to his grave.

He crawls towards the street, pain exploding all over his body; he forces himself up, even though his legs shake and his head spins from the loss of blood. He has to stop several times and fight back against the nausea.

The look of absolute shock on the face of the cop who finds him, a wide-eyed kid who probably started working the day before, tells Charlie he's in an even worse condition than he'd thought.  
“Mother of God,” the kid whispers, running up to Charlie. He looks like he wants to help him, but he's also scared to touch him. “Who did this to you?”  
“I don't know,” Charlie mutters, “Just call me a taxi and I'll go home.”  
“A _taxi_?” the kid says, incredulous, “Your _throat_  is cut open.”  
“Oh.” Charlie says, “So that's why it hurts.”  
“Jesus Christ, sir. Sit down. Just. Wait here, I'll... I don't know. Wait here.”  
He helps Charlie sit with his back to the wall, and Charlie watches him run off. Nice kid, he thinks. Too bad he's a cop.

  
  


“Did you know the men who grabbed you?” the cop asks.  
The hospital room is quiet, the nurses keep walking by and glaring at the two cops looming over Charlie. It's a gloomy day, and Charlie would like nothing better than to be left alone and take a nap.  
“I don't.” he says, “I told you that already.”  
“You should talk, Mister Lucania,”  
“Luciano.”  
“A man like you should be in prison, you know that? The fact you're in a hospital should make the extent of the damage those people have done to you pretty clear. Tell us who they were.”  
“I don't know,” Charlie say for the umpteenth time, articulating every word slowly and carefully, and staring straight into the eyes of the cop talking to him. He's starting to miss the kid who found him. “What do you want me to say? I don't know who those assholes were. I was out cold for most of the night. I didn't even realize they dumped me in Staten Island, goddammit.”

At least, Charlie thinks, he's not sitting in front of a judge anymore, blood dripping on the courtroom floor. Talk about a surreal experience.

“Who do you think could want you dead?” the cop asks him.  
Charlie bursts into laughter at that, but he stops with a wince, a pang of pain shooting through his wounds.

He does know who wants him dead. He didn't recognize the rest of the fucks who kidnapped him, but he recognized their accent, and that's all he needs. They were from Philadelphia. Sabella sent them, and if Sabella sent them, Maranzano told him to.

Not that it matters, Charlie thinks, blocking out the cop's insistent chatter. He'll take care of it.

  
  


Charlie isn't sure how long he's been lying in the hospital bed, but at some point the massive cop sitting next to Charlie's bed has been substituted by a smaller one. He's reading a newspaper, and he hands it to Charlie when he notices he's awake.  
“Looks like you're famous,” he says.  
“They got my name wrong,” Charlie groans, sitting up.

It's early morning, but the weather is so bad it could just as well be night. Thunder explodes right above them, and the cop almost jumps out of his chair. The window-panes rattle wildly. Charlie wonders what Meyer is doing.

He doesn't like not being able to talk to Meyer. He doesn't like that he can't tell him he's all right, and not to worry. He wishes he could just have him here right now, curled up next to him.  
But Meyer is too smart to try and see Charlie now, when everybody's watching, waiting, taking notes.

“It says here you were out chasing some skirt when they got you,” the cop says.  
“Yeah, I was chasing your mother.” Charlie mutters.  
“If she's having some fun, good for her.” shrugs the cop. Charlie frowns at him. “I'm new,” the cop says, “Apparently the entire police department fucked my mom.”

  
  


“This is _bullshit_ ,” Benny snaps at the judge, as Pinky gently wraps an arm around Charlie's waist to support him. “Those assholes beat the shit out of him, and you put _him_  in jail?”  
The slamming of the judge's gavel booms into Charlie's skull.  
“Careful, young man, I'll hold you in contempt.”  
“How about you hold my fucking...”  
“Benny,” Charlie says. He sees Benny's mouth snap shut. He glares at the judge for a long moment, then turns around and walks past Charlie and Pinky to open the door for them.

“Who do I got to kill?” Benny asks, once they're in the car.  
“I'll keep you updated.” Charlie answers. “I need to talk to Meyer.”  
Benny nods, pouting a little.

It started snowing, while Charlie was in jail. The streets are covered in ice, and the car keeps skidding. In the alleys, kids are throwing snowballs at each other, yelling and laughing.  
“I want to listen,” Benny says. Charlie looks at him, and Benny fidgets a little, but doesn't budge. “I know you've got something to say. I want to hear it too. I'm not a kid, Charlie.” he adds, when Charlie sighs.  
“You'll hear it,” Charlie says, “I still need to talk to Meyer, first. Alone.”  
Benny blinks at him. “Oh,” he says, “Right. Yeah, sure.” he mumbles. It may be the icy cold, or it may be something else, but Benny's cheeks go bright pink.

Meyer is sitting when they walk in, a cigarette-filled ashtray on the coffee table in front of him. He jumps up when he sees Charlie, walks up to him, then stops. The way he's looking at him makes Charlie think of a child who spent a whole day playing with someone, but isn't sure their friend remembers them, or still likes them, the day after.  
His eyes linger on the bandages around Charlie's neck, on the angry scar on his cheek.  
“Leave us alone,” Meyer orders. Benny nods at Charlie before leaving.

“ _State bene_ ,” he says. It could or could not be a question.  
“I'm all right, Little Meyer” Charlie answers, with a grin.  
“You should sit down,” Meyer says, quickly, as if he's just realized it himself, but then he looks at Charlie and gets distracted again.  
He steps closer, reaches up to touch Charlie's cheek, fingertips gingerly feeling Charlie's stubble. Charlie brings his hand up to meet Meyer's, he presses his lips against Meyer's wrist.  
“This won't go unpunished,” Meyer says, his eyes just as cold as his voice.  
“We got time for that,” Charlie says, leaning into Meyer's touch.

  
  


“I thought about what you always say,” Charlie tells Meyer.  
“Hush,” Meyer says. He's carefully holding Charlie's chin up, methodically shaving his stubble. He's sitting behind Charlie, his feet in the bathtub, Charlie's head in his lap. There's a cigarette smoking in the ashtray next to the soap. The faucet won't stop dripping.  
Meyer drags the razor up Charlie's throat, and Charlie is shocked at how deeply at ease he feels with his life in Meyer's hands.  
“This thing of ours. It's a business, right?”  
“Yes,” Meyer says, cleaning up the razor.  
“Then we shouldn't just conduct it as a business,” Charlie says, tasting Meyer's own words on his tongue, “We should also, hm... regulate it like a business.”

Meyer's eyes leave the razor and meet Charlie's. He doesn't speak, which prompts Charlie to keep talking. “Let's say Maranzano kills Masseria. Let's say we have a new Don. He won't want to work with Jews or blacks or Irish. He won't want to listen to people working for him. Nothing will change.”  
“I see,” murmurs Meyer. “You're saying it's a structural problem.”  
Charlie nods. “What Maranzano said, that he will rule like a father? How's that any different from ruling any other way? It's too much power in the hands of one person alone. How do businesses make decisions?”  
“By commission.” Meyer says, softly.  
“By commission,” Charlie agrees, “That's what we need to do. What we need to build.”

Meyer sets the razor down on the edge of the bathtub. He sits up a little, picks up his cigarette. Charlie misses Meyer's hands on his face.  
“If the current situation stays unchanged,” he says, “The people composing this commission would Mangano, Gagliano, Bonanno, and Profaci. Al Capone, Magaddino...”  
“And whoever we decide to back during this war.”  
“You, then.” Meyer says, without a hint of hesitation. “Masseria and Maranzano would never agree to this. It has to be you.”  
“Us,” Charlie corrects him. “I don't care if it's official or not, I need you. Will you do it? Will you help me?”  
“Has there ever been any doubt about it?” Meyer asks.

  
  


The apartment is dark and mostly empty; it looks like someone started renovating it but gave up that notion soon after. Pipes and chunks of brick are piled in the corners. Most of the fixtures are missing, but at least the windows are in place.  
Someone threw a mattress on the floor, and that's where Charlie is sitting, shivering a little. Meyer is sitting opposite to him, unrolling Charlie's bandages, looking grim.

Charlie realizes, as he looks at Meyer, how much he missed him during the two weeks he spent handcuffed to a hospital bed. How restless his absence made him.  
He doesn't blame him for not showing up, he knows why he did that. The more he manages to avoid attention, the more helpful he can be. Still, there have been days in which Charlie was almost physically aching for Meyer to be there.

“I didn't ask,” Charlie says, “Was Pinky hurt?”  
Meyer shakes his head. “Not a scratch. He was inconsolable, though.”  
“Doesn't surprise me. You told him to keep me safe and he couldn't. You can be very scary.”  
“It wasn't because of that,” Meyer says, shooting Charlie a look, “He really likes you.”  
“Oh,” Charlie says. “He does?”  
“I completely understand your surprise,” says Meyer, grinning as he sets the bandages aside, “Only a saint could love a man like you.”  
“Well, I _am_  very charming. And handsome.”  
“If you ask me, I would say your best feature is your humility.” Meyer says.  
“Shut up,” Charlie says, smiling.

The grin lingers on Meyer's face for a few minutes while he cleans up Charlie's wounds, but fades as he looks down at him. Charlie feels Meyer's fingertips softly press into the skin around the wounds. He sighs.  
“It could be worse,” Charlie says.  
“You could be dead.” Meyer answers, coldly.  
“Would you miss me?” Charlie shrugs, his tone light.  
“Yes.” Meyer says, and look at him straight in the eye, with an expression so serious Charlie's heart skips a beat.

He wants to say something, Charlie. He wants to tell Meyer he missed him terribly, he wants to tell him he never felt at home anywhere before he met him. Instead, he sneezes.  
“Sorry,” says Meyer, grabbing a blanket and throwing it around Charlie's shoulders, “I'm almost done...”  
Charlie doesn't even think about it before he wraps an arm around Meyer's waist and holds Meyer close, squeezing him a little, pressing his face against Meyer's hair.  
“Be careful...” Meyer says, but still rests his head on Charlie's shoulder.

  
  


“I got a gift for you,” Benny says. He's sporting a big bruise on his cheekbone, but looks very satisfied. Pinky and two kids drag four people in the apartment, they throw them on the floor.  
Meyer abandons his notes and slowly stands up. He paces for a few moments before he rips off the sacks from the four men's heads.  
Charlie, sitting on the arm-chair, observes without a sound.  
“Pinky,” Meyer says. Pinky rushes next to him, he follows Meyer's eyes. “Tell me.”  
“That's the driver,” Pinky says, point at one of them, then at another one, “And that's the one who shot at me.”  
Meyer nods, he stands up in front of the driver, looking down at him. “I want to know what you did, that night,” he says, softly. Charlie can't see him, but he's sure he's smiling.  
“I just drove the car, I swear to God, I just...”  
“Did he?” he asks the other three. They nod. “Are you _sure_? You do _not_  want to be lying to me, gentlemen.”  
“He just drove,” one of the three says. Meyer nods, he considers their words. Then he grabs Pinky's gun and shoots the driver.

Charlie sees the kids flinch. Pinky looks uncomfortable. Benny's cheeky smile has disappeared; he now looks completely serious.  
“You don't want to see this,” Meyer tells Pinky, who nods and hurries away with the others.  
“I do,” Benny says.  
Charlie looks at Benny, then back at Meyer.  
“What do you remember?” asks Meyer, not looking at Charlie.  
“The _malupilu_ , there, he cut my face,” says Charlie, pointing at the red-haired man. The man is shaking. He won't look at Meyer. “I ain't sure about the others. Can't remember much.”  
“Did you slash his throat too?” Meyer asks, his voice gentle. The red-haired man shakes his head. He's breathing hard, now. “Who did that?”  
They all stay quiet. The man next to the red-haired one looks at the third men, who is insistently staring at the carpet. Meyer notices. Of course he does.  
“Was it you, then?” he says, moving to face the third man, who screws his eyes shut and seems to shrink before him.

Little Meyer, Charlie thinks. Even when he was a kid, back when they first met, Charlie used to find him incredibly indimitading. Such a tiny guy, and still he only needed a glare of those black eyes of his to make Charlie second-guess everything he was sure of.  
“Very well,” Meyer says.  
He raises the gun again, shoots the red-haired man first, then the other. The man who slashed Charlie's throat is the last one alive, and he looks like he's about to faint.  
Meyer puts the gun down on the coffee table. He starts circling the man, lights up a cigarette, takes a deep drag.

There's blood on the carpet and on the floor, and the man is staring at it.  
“Maranzano told us to,” the man says, “Maranzano wanted Lucky Luciano dead. We was just doing what we was told!”  
Meyer leaves his lit cigarette in the ashtray. He grabs one of the pipes in the corner of the room, swing it at the man's head like a bat. The crack that follows make Benny shift uneasily from one foot to the other, but he doesn't look away. The man falls on the floor with a thump, and Meyer keeps hitting and hitting him.

Benny may be looking at the bloody lump of a man on the floor, but Charlie is looking at Meyer. He's seen him angry. He's seen him murderous. He always keeps his rage in check, even when he kills, he's always so methodical, he never lets his emotions spill over like they're doing right now.  
When Meyer lets go of the pipe he's panting, hair flopping in front of his flushed, blood-splattered face. He runs a hand through his hair, tries to catch his breath.  
Charlie stands up, ignoring the vague spinning of his head. He squeezes Meyer's arm, and Meyer sighs. When he looks up at Charlie he's got such furious righteousness in his eyes. He closes his eyes, Meyer, takes a step forward, leans into Charlie and presses his forehead against Charlie's chest.

Benny's the one stepping forward and shooting the man still moaning on the floor.  
“I'll take care of them,” he says. Charlie nods at him.

  
  


The orange light from the fireplace makes the shadows in the room deeper, darker; it sends them dancing all over the walls. Frost creeps up the window-panes, the snow pirouettes franctically. The carpet is now missing, the floor has been scrubbed clean.

Meyer is exhausted enough he doesn't complain about how close to him Charlie's sitting, about his arm around Meyer's shoulders. Benny, who's been struggling with the fire for the past twenty minutes, finally stands up, looking vaguely disheveled.  
“Right,” he says, hands on his hips. “What now?”  
“Now we pick a side,” Meyer says.  
Benny nods, he leans against the wall, crosses his arms. “Do you already know how we're gonna do that?”  
Meyer's eyes move to Charlie's face, and Benny's follow.  
“I ain't a cultured man. I can't quote dead Roman emperors and shit, but I know one thing,” Charlie says, “The closer you are to your enemies, the better you can keep track of what they're up to.”  
Meyer grins to himself, and Charlie doesn't need him to speak to know they're thinking about the same exact thing.  
“Who are we taking out first?” asks Benny, eagerly.

  
  


To Maranzan's credit, he smiles to Charlie as if he had nothing to do with the attempt on his life. He shakes his hand, gestures towards the chair.  
“You look well,” he says, sitting down himself. “Are you familiar with Marcus Aurelius, Salvatore?”  
“Charlie. Can't say I am.”  
“Marcus Aurelius said that nothing ever happens to a man that he cannot, by his own nature, bear it. What happened to you was terrible, but it's a testament to your character.”  
“Or to my luck,” Charlie says.  
Maranzano smiles again. “They tell me you wanted to talk to me,” he says, stirring his coffee.  
“Word on the street's you're offering protection to whoever wants to stop working for Masseria.”  
“I thought Joe had been good to you.”  
“Things change.”  
“ _Parole sante_ ,” Maranzano nods, looking satisfied. “So you're looking for a new employer, is that it?”  
“I ain't expecting you to just take me in like that. I'll work for it. I always have.”  
“What are you suggesting?” Maranzano asks, setting his cup down.

Charlie leans forward a little, he looks at him. “I'm suggesting I take care of Masseria for you. When the time is right.”  
“And in exchange?”  
Charlie shrugs, sitting back again. “I just want a job,” he says.  
“You will swear allegiance to me?”  
“Of course.”

Maranzano doesn't speak for a moment; he studies Charlie's face, eyes darting on the scar on his cheek.  
Does he think Charlie's scared? Does he think Charlie smart enough to have figured out who ordered his death, but enough of a coward to want to abandon a sinking ship before it's too late?

Charlie thinks about Meyer, about what he told him before he left: Maranzano thinks himself a modern day Julius Caesar, he wants everything there is to conquer. He knows Charlie is a threat, but Charlie offering his services to him will make him feel even more validated in his belief the world is his to rule.  
' _Young, bright, dangerous Lucky_ ,' Meyer had said, ' _Going down on his knees before the king_.'

“Very well,” Maranzano says. “Keep your promise, and you'll be welcome in my family.”  
“Thank you, Don Salvatore.” Charlie says, and tries not to roll his eyes at how pleased Maranzano looks.

 


End file.
